What though, with many a shriek, and dismal yell,
My quivered Gods their bows of Ebon break;
And specious Arts, from den, or leafy cell,

At length must lure my guileless natives meek ?
Yet Heaven to distant Times the Wreath ordains
Of him whose final sway shall claim my destined plains.
Lo, then, whate'er old Bards, in mystic lore

Of regions blest, Hesperian coasts, have told, In me shall be revealed. From Shore to Shore, From Pole to Pole, one Empire I behold! From Albion's Cliffs a mighty King shall send Secure Dominion: mid the brave career, Howe'er to Death his honoured Eld descend,

A youthful Prince shall seize his massy spear, Shall rise his Grandsire's conquering race to run, To rule, to bless, the realms the hoary warrior won. The Right Hon. the Earl of DONEGAL, M.A. of Trinity College, Oxford.

1761.

EPIGRAM,

IMITATED FROM MARTIAL, B. II. EP. 53.
You talk of freedom-trust me, friend,
Your freedom all in talk will end.
If 'tis your passion to be free,
Contented dine at home, like me:

Your beverage draw from Whitbread's but;
Wear useful clothes of homely cut ;
And, tho' you cease to please the fair,
Discard all powder from your hair:
Walk undistinguish'd 'mid the group,
Nor scorn a door that makes you stoop,
To such a plan contract your view,
And kings will be less free than you.

STANZAS

ON THE NIGHTLY UPROAR AT COVENT-GARDEN.

OUR writers dramatic must welcome of course,
This downfall of sense and ascendance of sound;
Where pantomime gains an accession of force,
And long-sinking dialogue's finally drown'd.

Let them join the loud dunces in Boxes and Pit,
Of clamour and nonsense the instruments willing;
Who care not a shilling for genius or wit,

And whose own is confin'd to their care of a shilling,

And yet these curmudgeons, who willingly waste
Half-a-guinea,. (the Opera's worth it no doubt !)
Must be wanting in thrift, or deficient in taste,

Must be asses with ears, or be spendthrifts without, Half-a-guinea for singers and shallow-pate scrapers, Whose resin, not reason, provides them with meals! Or a Pirouette puppet's ad libitum capers,

Whose toe's in his head, and his head in his heels!! Ye critics, who jingle your bells at your ease, And flourish on foolscap appropriate wit, Put both round your noddle's instead of O. P.'s, And seem to the Stage what you act in the Pit.

So I shall no more in astonishment gaze,

*

So ye will no longer the reason dissemble, Why guineas are thrown to Da Pont and Des Hayes, And shillings regretted to Shakspeare and Kemble, The Opera-house Poet

A POETICAL JEU D'ESPRIT,

Written in Dr. Whalley's Study, which had suffered muck disarrangement, from being converted to an EatingRoom.

IN Babel of old,
We are credibly told,
Confusion of languages reign'd;
So, his Study survey,

And the same we may say
By the tomes of our medical friend.

In tiers above tiers,
Such a chaos appears,

Of English, French, Latin, and Greek,
That, to hunt up a book,
You as well might be took
To the Bodleian Bibliotheque.

Shelves rang'd over shelves,
For octavos and twelves,
Now groan with unlimited freight :
So Atlas, poor soul !

When he balanc'd the pole,

"Was said to sink under the weight.

Oft a folio size

O'er a quarto will rise,
By hurry or accident hurl'd;
As atoms by chance

Have been fabled to dance,
Ere they formed a fortuitous world.

Here, the late "Doctor Mead
Upon poisons" we read;

Alas! it can hardly be read;

So alike is the fate

Of, both little and great,

To be cover'd with dust when they're dead.

There Maro, behind,

Is with Flaccus consign'd
To dwell in araneous shades;
While pert pamphleteers

Turn up their dog's ears

In the front of those classical blades.

See bottles placed here,

With books in the rear,

A Baccho subversus Apollo !

Ye Gods! who'd have thought

That the tun-bellied sot,

Could have ousted his brother, the Scholar..

To that oaken Bastile *
What manuscripts steal!
Perhaps to see day-light no more;
As thousands, from earth,
Are convey'd at their birth,

To Lethe's somniferous shore.

A bureau, into which the Doctor used to huddle the effusions of his pen.

FROM off that delicate fair cheek,
Oh Maid, too fair, I did but seek

To steal a kiss, and lo!

your face,
With anger or with shame it glows;
What have I done, my gentle Grace,
But change a lily to rose !

At once your cheek and brow were flush'd,
Your neck and even your bosom blush'd!
And shame may claim the larger part

In that smooth neck, and all above:
But the blush so near the heart,
Oh! let it be a blush of love.
Pygmalion thus lit up with life
The statue that became his wife,